Til the End of Time
by AGirlAndABeast
Summary: All the pain is undone. Sansa/Tyrion. Post-8x03.


**Title: **Til the End of Time  
**Author:** Demelza  
**Disclaimer:** Game of Thrones and its characters belong to GRRM and HBO. I'm just borrowing them here for a little while. No infringements of any copyrights are intended.

vv

Sansa stood before the fire, her armor back in her rooms, and her cloak on the seat at her desk here in her office. The chill that had befallen Winterfell for some months now had eased, but she could feel what was left of it when soft gusts of wind crept through the window and caressed her face.

With each gentle gust she was taken back to the crypts. To the howling wind. To the crying and the horrendous screams as the women and children perished.

She kept playing the events through her mind, partly so she never forgot the faces of those who had died, and partly so she didn't forget that truly terrifying events had happened tonight.

She remembered sitting in the silence beside Tyrion, of hearing the children's voices, and their mothers quietly trying to reassure them that they were safe there in the crypts. They had all felt that way. She had. And though she'd so wanted to tell Tyrion about the Dothraki, about seeing their blades turn to fire, and dissipate nearly all as one when they reached the line where the undead were, the reality was she couldn't bear to face that truth. Not right then. Not when they were waiting with silent hope that the war was being won by the brave soldiers who were fighting above ground.

They'd sat there, none of them combatants, not even Tyrion really, though she knew he had fought in battle once before; but where his wits had saved them at the Battle of Blackwater he'd nearly lost his life in the process.

She took in a sharp breath then, that fear of losing him once more rising to the surface.

She'd had no time to push it aside, no time to remind herself their lives were no longer what they once were, when the coffins of the dead began to crumble as the inhabitants clawed their way out.

She remembered standing tall, unable to believe what they were seeing and hearing. Very soon a will to live like no other kicked in, and she moved with the others, she ushered them to run as fast as they could even as she felt as though her own legs were made of lead.

"Sansa!" she heard Tyrion's voice above the frantic madness. Ahead of them the undead were making a beeline for the living. Rushing. Jumping. Dragging. She followed after Tyrion, in behind the nearest crypt, dropped to the ground and pressed her back against the solid form behind her.

It had been barely light where they had hidden; she heard the screams of the living, the screeching fury of the undead.

Lights flickered and shadows rushed past in a never ending cycle and in between she was being beaten, pushed head first out of the Moondoor, and held down as she was raped and tortured all over again.

She wanted out.

Out of her head. Out of the crypts.

She was trying to claw her way to the surface of her every last fear, only her lungs burned and her heart raced so fast she couldn't control a single thought.

She closed her eyes for a beat, willed herself to return to the now.

But the screaming put her back in the Throne Room. It took her to the Moondoor and the clouds that littered the ground so very far, far below. She was cold and she was terrified of what she'd been promised would come next.

She blinked through the memories, squeezed her eyes shut and told herself,

Breathe. Just breathe!

The screams continued. The shadows of the undead shuttered around them.

She stared up at the brick wall of the crypt, forced out a calming breath then closed her eyes and told herself she could do this.

It was as she felt Tyrion move at her side that she opened her eyes, turned her head and stared at him.

Tyrion.

He reached for her hand, holding his breath as he did so.

It came over her then. A strength she had forgotten she had inside her. She'd survived so much, and with his hand grasping hers she knew she could do this.

She could survive again.

Shaking, she reached into her cloak, to where she had tucked the dragonglass dagger Arya had insisted she take with her.

They could survive this.

Her gaze slipped to Tyrion's torso, then back to him.

She'd seen the dagger on his belt earlier, and the smallest smile tugged on her lips. It was matched by a small smile from him as he pulled out his dragonglass dagger with unspoken resolve and determination.

Together.

Hope, at last, erased the memories that terrorized her and she smiled at Tyrion, her gaze fixed on his lips as they too curved into two small, reassuring smiles as if to say he wasn't about to let anything happen to her.

"I promise you one thing, my lady: I won't ever hurt you."

And he didn't.

He'd saved her, more times than she could recall and in more ways than he probably ever knew he had.

She wanted so desperately to cry then, to tell him thoughts of their time together, of he himself, had stayed with her even through the worst of the years past. She wanted to tell him it was only in him being here at her side that she was able to stay above the quicksand of awful memories.

And in his eyes she saw it reflected. She saw the affection. She saw that same promise—made years ago—that he wouldn't hurt her. She knew back then, as much from his words as his actions in defense of her, that he would protect her from all the harm in the world if he could.

In short breaths, her gaze fell to his mouth once more and oh how she wished they were anywhere else, with the time to express what they hadn't been able to when they'd reunited. She lifted her eyes back to his, as warm and as kind as she had remembered and dreamed of them being. And that's when, his emotions rising within him too, he lifted her gloved hand to his mouth and pressed a lingering kiss to her knuckles.

There was a promise in his eyes.

A tearful, happy promise that they were going to survive and get to say everything they intended.

And they had.

They'd ran through the crypt, darting into shadowed spaces as they made their way toward the others. They crept up on the undead, stabbed them through with their daggers and watched them fall to the ground in piles of bone and dust.

She could scarcely remember when it all ended, or how it had. But the undead had fallen and their screeching had ceased and all that remained was the flicker of dancing flames.

Taking in a breath, Sansa held it for a beat before letting it out, slow and shuddered.

They hadn't spoken since they left the crypt. The night past they had remained in the castle, attending to the wounded housed in the various rooms. She had been with men as they breathed their last, had wept silently as she helped to hold down terrified soldiers that needed limbs removed.

There had been so much blood. So much suffering.

But there had been something else amidst it all.

Life.

When a newborn's cries had filled the great hall Sansa's eyes sought out Tyrion, and she found him, at the far end of the hall, surrounded by the flickering light of torches as he stopped bandaging one of the Vale soldier's arms to look back at her.

Her breath caught again now, as it had done then.

He really was not like the men she had known, the men who'd left her with enough nightmares to last several lifetimes over.

A gentle knock at the door sounded and Sansa's body tensed for a moment, then relaxed. The door creaked open, a woman's voice sounding next,

"My lady, your room is ready. Shall I send your handmaiden now?"

She stared at the flickering flames. "Yes. Thank you."

Silence came again, interrupted for the briefest few seconds by the creak and clunk of the door as it closed, and Sansa let out one of her same, calming breaths from the crypt.

Not long after, Sansa found her way along the corridors to her rooms. The sun descending upon the realm had never looked as beautiful as it did tonight; it lit the corridors with a brilliant orange that reminded her of happier times in her childhood. She let those memories in, having promised herself when they retook Winterfell that she would.

She turned the corridor and her breath hitched when she saw Tyrion standing outside the door that led to her rooms. Then, a smile curved her lips and she felt something in her stomach that she remembered feeling once upon a time. Butterflies.

Having heard her footsteps, Tyrion turned, slow and unsure, to face her.

"Lady Sansa," he breathed, and the joy she felt at hearing his voice after a day without it brought tears to her eyes.

He misread them, though. "I can go."

"Please stay," she said.

He shook his head, hesitant. "We… you and I…"

Her voice soft, she whispered, "Are alive."

Tyrion swallowed. "Yes. Yes, we are."

A comfortable silence fell for a beat, when he spoke again, this time his brow creasing in confusion. "I was told you asked me to come to your rooms?"

"I did," she smiled, and as she stepped nearer to him she saw his confusion had etched deeper into his brow and had settled in his expression. "Would you… join me, my lord?"

"I…"

For a brief moment she feared he would say no, but instead he lifted his head and gazed lovingly up at her.

"My lady, I would."

They shared a him smile, and floral fragrances met them both as Sansa opened the door and welcomed him into her rooms.

After he had stepped inside, she pushed the door closed and joined Tyrion to look about the room before them. Her bedding had been drawn back, plump pillows lay at the head end of the bed. A tray of simple foods sat atop a table with a bottle of wine and two glasses awaiting them.

She watched as he took a few more steps into the room, his movements full of hesitance.

Knowing it helped him, she asked, "Wine?"

At that, Tyrion turned, surprised and silent.

Sansa tilted her head to the side, "What is it?"

"I can't… choose."

She took in a small breath and closed the gap between them. "And you shall never have to."

It was Tyrion who inhaled then. "But, the North..."

"Supports its Queen," she promised. "And will do, for generations to come."

He released a happy, hesitant chuckle, as if he wasn't quite sure when or how this had happened, or if it was even real.

"But there is one condition," Sansa began, and he fixed his gaze on her. She drew both her hands to her stomach then, reached her left hand to retrieve an item tucked inside her belt. She could feel her heart race faster now, unsure if perhaps she should have gone about this in a different way. But when the item dropped to the ground between them, it was too late.

Tears prickled her eyes, a sudden fear of loss overwhelming her the way it had panicked her in the crypts.

"Hey, hey it's okay," Tyrion whispered, taking her hand in his. "I'll pick it up. It's okay."

It wasn't the item's loss she feared.

He bent before her, and when she heard the scrape of metal on marble she felt his left hand fall from his. It was in that moment that the loss she felt rushed at her and the sob she was trying so desperately to hold in escaped.

She watched Tyrion through blurred, tear-filled eyes as he stared at the item in hand. Gold and red, she knew he recognized it.

This wasn't the way it should have happened.

This wasn't the way she'd played it out in her mind.

Finally, Tyrion lifted his gaze and found hers. His own eyes shimmered with unshed tears.

"Your ring," came his whispered words. "You kept it?"

"You… you were all I had left in the world. I couldn't… I didn't want to… to let you go. Even when… everything…" She wept through the words, and when he closed the space between them and took her hands in his she felt all the emotions of the crypt come racing back to her. "I want you," she whispered, tears streaking her cheeks. "I want us."

Tyrion eyes searched Sansa's, he nodded his head, his own tears flowing now, and he vowed, "As do I. From this day forward 'til our last."

Both their gazes faltered to each other's lips and back again.

Tyrion withdrew his right hand then, the one holding the ring, and asked, "May I?"

With a gentle nod, Sansa held her hand, fingers stretched just so. She didn't tremble, and nor did he. He slipped the ring on her finger, then lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a lingering kiss to her knuckles.

In turn, Sansa lowered herself to her knees, so that she and Tyrion were face to face. It was different this time than the last, when they'd been before the High Septon in front of a crowd of people who hated them. Here, in this moment, it was only them and the Gods. All she felt inside was alive, and it was truly because of the kind and gentle man who stood before her.

The small space between them disappeared as Tyrion moved ever closer to her, and Sansa lifted her left hand to his cheek and, with tenderness, traced his scar from his cheek to his jaw. She smiled, another tear flowing freely. Her voice a whisper, she murmured, "I love you, Tyrion,"

Visibly taken aback, he tried to gain composure, but like herself he was overwhelmed with emotion.

Finally, the words came to him. "And I… I love you. Sansa. My wife. The wife I hardly knew."

"You will," she promised, cupping Tyrion's cheek with tenderness. She let her gaze fall to his mouth for a beat, before meeting his kind and happy eyes once more. "We're trapped in a castle, with nowhere to go."

He leaned back a little, searched her eyes with a surprised smile.

Sansa lightly bit her lower lip then, a little of her nerves from before settling in her stomach again. "May I?" she asked.

Tyrion, his gaze falling to her lips, nodded.

She leaned her face closer to her lord husband's, a nervous excitement making her heart race faster still. They had only shared a quick kiss before the High Septon, but this time she wanted to remember the moment and the rest of the night forever.

She could tell Tyrion was as nervous as she was by the way his breath hitched and he kept smiling that same nervous smile she had grew fond of in the months of their marriage.

Closer now, she could smell the wine on his breath, and wondered if she would be able to taste its sweetness on his lips. It was then that she paused, her eyes searching his soulful blue gaze for one more moment before she let her eyes drift shut and she brushed her lips against his. What nerves she had felt were replaced with a rush of warmth that made her feel like she was finally home.

At her waist she felt Tyrion's hands reach for her, his touch was gentle and his hands warm through the fabric of her garments, and as he drew her body to his Sansa deepened the kiss, capturing his lower lip in his and kissing him the way she'd promised herself she would when given the chance.

She was finally happy, with the brave, gentle and strong man Father had promised he'd find for her, and as Tyrion held her close, his embrace filled with nothing but love and adoration, Sansa knew it had been her father that brought them back together.


End file.
